


all bets are off

by Edgedancer



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Season/Series 05, in my apocalypse? it's more likely than you think, maaaaybe a drop of angst but like. barely, minor 192 spoilers ig, seriously this is just them being silly and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29650428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edgedancer/pseuds/Edgedancer
Summary: "Bet you five quid that Flesh domain we're avoiding wouldn't have been as gross as this," Martin grumbles, wrenching his feet out of the oozing black mud trying to swallow him.Jon pauses up ahead, not even out of breath; the ground isn't trying to eathim. Maybe, like Helen, it thinks the smug little bastard would give it indigestion."I'd say I'd feel too bad to take your money," he says, tone playfully superior, "but honestly it isn't as though it would be much of a loss nowadays."***It may be the end times, but it's still a road trip of sorts, right? So, in grand tradition, Jon and Martin make up silly games to entertain themselves.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 104





	all bets are off

**Author's Note:**

> [inspired by this post,](https://anglrfish.tumblr.com/post/643759074415149056/smallandknowingdyke-jingus-mcbingus-floating) technically

"Bet you five quid that Flesh domain we're avoiding wouldn't have been as gross as _this_ ," Martin grumbles, wrenching his feet out of the oozing black mud trying to swallow him.

Jon pauses up ahead, not even out of breath; the ground isn't trying to eat _him_. Maybe, like Helen, it thinks the smug little bastard would give it indigestion.

"I'd say I'd feel too bad to take your money," he says, tone playfully superior, "but honestly it isn't as though it would be much of a loss nowadays."

"You're not wrong," Martin allows.

Then he yelps as he realizes that he's been stood still too long, and the mud has crawled up to his shins, seeping over the tops of his boots.

"Of course I'm not," Jon replies as he doubles back to offer a hand. Martin huffs and rolls his eyes, but reaches back, even though Jon definitely isn't strong enough to actually pull him out. It's probably the only leverage he's going to get in this sea of sludge, after all.

"Don't fall in too, or we'll never get out," Martin warns anyway.

Jon sets his jaw stubbornly and grabs his forearm; as soon as his hand touches Martin's skin, before he can even pull, the ground... spits Martin out, he supposes, pushing up under his feet and sloughing off his boots, solidifying as soon as he's emerged.

Unprepared for the lack of resistance, Jon reels backward; only Martin instinctively clutching at his hand saves him from falling on his arse. Instead he stumbles forward into Martin's chest, and without thinking Martin curls his other arm around his narrow shoulders, steadying them.

After a moment, Jon draws away slightly, letting his hand slip down Martin's arm to interlace their fingers instead, and together they stare down at the ground beneath their feet.

It doesn't _look_ any more solid than before, and the way their shoes remain above it despite the shifting, sucking ooze of it is actually vaguely disquieting.

"I suppose there have to be some perks to dating the Antichrist," Martin manages after a moment, and Jon snorts.

“Ye of little faith,” he says, tone wry, “why did you doubt?”

Martin opens his mouth-- it's not like Jon had been expecting this either-- then stops. "Wait, is that-- Jon, is that the _Bible_? Are you quoting _Jesus?_ "

Jon smirks.

"Well, I guess I already knew you had a savior complex," Martin replies, and delights in the way the smirk melts instantly into a catty glare.

"If you can make antichrist jokes," he says sulkily, and Martin laughs.

"Fair enough," he says, and Jon uncurls a bit. "I do remember quite a bit in those bits about 'not being afraid', though."

Jon sighs and starts them walking again, still clutching Martin's hand. "Yes, well, Matthew is the only one where Peter tries to get out and walk on the water _too_ , so it fit better for a number of reasons."

Martin smiles as he follows. He doesn't remember a _whole_ lot from Sunday school, but putting aside the unfortunate associations with a certain Lukas, Peter was one of the better disciples, right? _Upon this rock I will build my church_ , and all that.

"Well, I could hardly let you walk across alone," he replies. "All-powerful-archivist or not."

"I suppose not," Jon agrees, glancing down at the sucking mud. "Maybe I should have gotten us a boat or something..."

Martin stops short, pulling Jon up as well. "Could you do that? Just... manifest a boat?"

"I... " Jon trails off, eyes going unfocused. "Maybe?"

Frowning, Martin nearly crosses his arms before he remembers that he's not just holding Jon's hand because it's fun. "No, see, that's the tone that means you're not telling me the answer because you think I'll find it upsetting. I won't be _upset_ if your powers don't extend to creating boats out of nothing, Jon."

Jon is silent for a long moment. Martin squints. The light here is the sort of dull, oppressive red Martin might actually have expected from an apocalypse, but as in most places it's enough for him to study the slight sheepish hesitance on Jon's face carefully.

"Or... you could have," he realizes. " _Seriously_?"

"If I'd thought I needed it, I think," Jon says uncomfortably. "If I were trying to cross actual deep water or something, not just..."

"Man-eating mud."

"Yes."

"So I waded through-- through _hours_ of this sludge, because you didn't feel like it was _inconvenient_ enough?" Martin realises. Jon shrugs jerkily.

"In my defense, rowing a boat through this probably would have been frustrating too?" he replies, kicking at the mud; his toe drags through it slowly, like a knife through thick honey.

"That's-- well, that's true, I guess," Martin says, deflating slightly. "It would have been less gross, though!"

"Probably," Jon agrees. "We're close to the end, anyway."

So on they go.

* * *

An hour or so later, at least to his puny mortal perception, Martin contemplates the shifting, multi-colored mass of what looks like squares of cloth before them.

"Bet you a piggyback ride through this domain that the avatar here used to be a stage magician," he says.

"I-- what?" Jon sputters, breaking away from when he'd been staring at the swirling colors to stare at Martin instead.

"I mean, it looks like that trick where they pull a million handkerchiefs out of their sleeve, doesn't it?" he explains. "Like, if it had gone really wrong."

"No, I mean-- what did you say you'd bet?"

Martin finds his cheeks heating despite himself. "I mean, it's like you said back in that Buried place, right? Neither of us cares much about money, at this point."

"I... suppose," Jon says slowly.

"Capitalism defeated," Martin rambles on, looking forward again. That's going to be a _delight_ to get through; he can already feel the headache coming on. "Only took an apocalypse."

"A real bargain," says Jon, arch, but with a note of tension.

Not in the mood for apocalypse jokes, then, Martin supposes. He tries to imagine what sort of suffering is going on ahead of them-- other than aforementioned headaches, he supposes-- that have triggered the guilt again. It might not even be something there, though; Jon's perfectly capable of spiraling without outside influence.

Right now, though, he seems unwilling to dwell on it.

"What would I give you if you're right?" he asks thoughtfully instead. "I don't think I could carry you for more than a few steps. I mean, I could _try_ \--"

"No, god, your poor back would probably snap like a twig," Martin cuts in, half teasing, half genuine concern. Jon glares.

"I'm not _quite_ that fragile, Martin," he says frostily. His tone and face together are enough to give Martin a moment of dissonance, imagining having anything like this conversation in that first year in the Archive, and he suppresses a snort.

"Well, you can..." he thinks for a moment. Something a bit silly, but something he actually wants... "You can tell me the story behind that one picture of you in steampunk costume you refused to explain."

Jon blinks, and then a flash of embarrassment flits across his face before he covers it up. "I-- I suppose that's fair enough."

"I mean, don't let me _force_ you," Martin teases. "You don't have to tell me your deepest, darkest secrets, this isn't fifth grade truth-or-dare."

Jon smiles, the sharp-cornered one he gets when he's being sarcastic.

"Hardly the _darkest_ ," he says, and then the smile goes softer, his eyes flitting to lock gazes with Martin for a moment before they jerk away, so Martin knows whatever's coming next is going to be incredibly sincere. "You already know all of those, I think."

"Yeah, I do," Martin replies, reaching out to brush Jon's cheek with his fingers. That impossibly soft gaze returns to his face, the smile trembling as it grows, and Jon leans, ever so slightly, into Martin's hand. He tries not to shiver, then can't suppress it when Jon's hand comes up to cover his own.

They stay there for a long, taut moment, before with a deep breath Jon pries Martin's fingers far enough away from his skin to hold his hand instead.

"I love you anyway," Martin says then with a squeeze, "so I'm sure I won't leave you in shame over your secret cosplay phase, or whatever it was."

Jon snorts. "'Cosplay phase?' Really?"

Martin grins back. "If not cosplay, then what?"

"You haven't won yet," Jon points out. "And my feet _are_ getting tired..."

His eyes go distant and intent for a moment before he's back with a smirk.

"Seriously?" Martin whines, but he starts to take off the rucksack. "What were they, then?"

"Military sergeant," Jon replies smugly, slinging the pack over his own back. "Those are flags, not handkerchiefs."

"Oh, well, next time tell me that before you take the bet!" Martin replies, offended. "What's the fear, then, rabid patriotism?"

"Something like that," Jon agrees, the smile audible in his voice as he places his hands on Martin's shoulders. It takes a moment for Martin to recall the mechanics of doing this without some kind of step up, though he remembers quickly enough when Jon makes a little jump and Martin has to grab for his knees.

"Oh-- joy," Martin huffs as Jon's arms come down to lock around his chest. The back of his neck warms under the breath of Jon's answering laugh. "How far is it to the other side again?"

"Well," Jon begins, the crisp tones right in his ear making Martin suppress another shiver, " _technically_ \--"

"I bet," Martin says, cutting Jon off by hiking him up on his back and making him gasp, "that you can't go ten domains without making a pedantic comment about spacetime."

* * *

He manages not to drop Jon in the flag realm despite the hellishly flashing colors, and then wins the bet four domains later by tempting Jon with an 'innocent' question about birthdays. After some grumbling, Jon fesses up to having 'participated in a band' in his uni days, and then is so flustered by Martin's delighted follow-up questions that he admits to being the lead singer and even explains a bit about his character before going totally red and clamming up when Martin asks him to sing something.

It becomes a bit of a game after that, embarrassing stories and feats of strength turned into currency for bets on silly things like whether that coffin would stop moaning if Martin banged on it like an irritated old man living above partying uni students ( _terrifyingly enough, yes_ ), or whether Jon can climb to the top of the impossible card-tower before it collapses ( _no, but only because Martin distracting him with a startled_ Holy shit, Jon _after he'd scrambled halfway up in twenty seconds flat didn't_ technically _count as cheating_ ), or what those Extinction-Stranger yard-decoration flamingos would do if Jon yelled at them to get off his lawn.

(Neither of them win that one; the flamingos neither fly away like startled geese, as Martin had suggested, or try to attack them like _angry_ startled geese, as Jon had contended, but instead blink their creepy plastic eyes, ruffle their painted-aluminum feathers with an awful metallic scrape, and obediently fold up their single iron-stake legs to float ominously and impossibly above the radioactive-green grass.)

Martin manages to convince Jon to wager the performance of one of his band's songs by offering, in balance, the recital of one of the poems Martin had written about him. He congratulates himself on the agreement when it turns out Jon getting into character and singing about hellfire is actually _really hot_. Then he regrets it when he loses the next bet and has to endure Jon dissolving into laughter as soon as he's finished the poem, despite what appears to be a genuinely heroic effort to keep the sound in.

"I'm flattered, really, Martin," he gasps out, but it's hard to believe considering he's almost literally rolling on the ground.

Martin, hiding his burning cheeks in his arms, manages an agonized, "Well, I'm not, Jon, oh my god!"

Jon takes a deep breath, audibly pulling himself together as he sits up.

"I'm sorry," he says gently, pulling Martin's hands away from his face. "I didn't mean to... it was sweet, Martin."

Martin flops back on the strange, barren in-between-place ground with a huff.

"You get that the fact that that's the nicest thing you can say makes it _worse,_ right?"

"Well, I'm not very nice," Jon says defensively from above, making Martin snort. "I'm sure it's far better than anything _I_ could write?"

For a moment Martin's breath catches as he imagines Jon writing love poetry about _him_ , and then he remembers Jon's best efforts at describing his own emotions ('very sad', _really_ ) and the catch turns into a snicker.

"That's no high praise either," he points out, and Jon sighs ruefully, admitting the point as he lies back down next to Martin.

They sit in silence for moment, gazing up at the all-seeing sky as it stares back down at them, and then Jon takes a breath.

Martin tenses, and when Jon begins, "I think your 'fathomless orbs' are lovely too, and your--" he's cut off by Martin's palm over his mouth before he can get any further, and then they're both giggling uncontrollably and curling into each other.

If this were a story, Martin finds himself thinking as Jon continues to snicker into the hollow of his throat, this moment would be enough to defeat the Eye.

After all, how long had he spent terrified that Jon might find some scrap of that poetry, that he'd see how ridiculously gone Martin was over him and be disgusted? To be able to laugh over it and know Jon loves him anyway-- loves him _because_ \-- should have been... toxic, or something, to a creature that feeds on the worry that no one who knows him the way Jon does could ever keep caring.

Of course, that isn't how it works, but Martin holds onto the thought anyway, thinks of every shared story and moment of laughter-- rare and inappropriate as they sometimes are-- as winning a forfeit from the thing that thinks it owns the world, thinks it owns Jon.

So when they walk into the Panopticon and he sees that terrible look on Jon's face, the one that makes a deep part of Martin whisper _he's found something he wants more than he'll ever want you_ , he only lets the panic seep in for a second.

Then he slings off his rucksack, pulls out one of the unlabelled cans he'd gotten from the tunnel cult, and turns to Jon.

"Bet you another love poem I can bean him right in the back of the head," he says, hefting it in his hand experimentally.

Jon blinks, the faraway look disappearing from his face as he tears his eyes away from Magnus, and the sharp, delighted grin Martin adores appearing there instead.

"You're on."

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, drop a comment, kudos, or come scream at me about these ridiculous men on [tumblr!](https://radiantmists.tumblr.com)


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